


A Leap of Faith

by strawberriez8800 (orphan_account)



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Excludes Events of Downton Movie, Gen, M/M, Post-Canon, Romance, Slow Burn, Thomas Leaves Service For London, Thomas Works at Gentlemen's Club
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:28:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23356978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/strawberriez8800
Summary: Towards greater things.It was Thomas's parting thought as Downton Abbey faded into the horizon. It was 1926; the time had come to leave behind his days in service and begin a new life in London. On a fateful day, the Duke of Crowborough visited the gentlemen's club where Thomas worked, bringing forth the scars of wounds past and memories as old as time.Although Thomas had promised himself to never make the same mistake twice, it was easier said than done.Discontinued.
Relationships: Duke of Crowborough/Other(s), Thomas Barrow & Phyllis Baxter, Thomas Barrow/Duke of Crowborough, Thomas Barrow/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 56





	1. Thomas I: Towards Greater Things

**Author's Note:**

> 13 April 2020 Update: Hi! Just want to say that unfortunately this fic is discontinued due to external distractions (mainly three reasons, first being Thomas/Richard, second being the show Peaky Blinders, and last being that I'm losing focus in writing long stories). It's a bit unfortunate because I do have a full outline for this story, but I just don't have the motivation to continue it and it's not fun to write this fic anymore. I don't want to put this on hiatus because it implies I will pick it back up one day. At this point, I don't think I will, so whilst I'm not orphaning this story (for the very slight chance that I do end up picking back up), I'm officially discontinuing it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I'm back again with yet another fic for Thomas and Philip. It is canon-compliant until the end of the main series (the movie doesn't happen in this universe). I've always wished that Thomas's ending in Downton would be him deciding to leave service and pursue a different life. Alas, that doesn't happen - so here we are. And because I adore Philip, he will be in this story as well, and they WILL get their happy ending, I'll just go right out and say it now. 
> 
> Chapters will be written from Thomas or Philip's perspectives.

On this day of 1926, when Thomas awoke to the greetings of dawn - staring up at the ceiling of the quarters he’d woken up to for the past decade - he realised, with a muted start, exactly six months had passed since he’d become the butler of Downton Abbey. Needless to say, it’d been _far_ longer - so much that he dared not put a number to it - since he’d started here as a boy.

There was no pride in the realisation, only a begrudging acknowledgment to the truth that time - predictably so, though _abrupt_ all the same - had bested him in its passing. As he began the vague motions of starting the day, the familiar, yet unwelcome voice nagged within him: surely there was more to life than this.

It wasn’t the first time he’d had such a thought that Carson would deem to be treachery, and it wouldn’t be the last, for Thomas was a man of thirty-five years old and already his life felt akin to a book with the same page over and over; was it any wonder, then - as Thomas donned the livery as he’d done for many years past, greeted the staff he’d worked with for the better part of his adulthood, in the hall where he’d lived and breathed - that he yearned for greener pastures?

On this day of 1926, after Thomas had locked the Abbey for the night, he decided - enough was enough; he began his search for a job that would take him beyond the weary reach of domestic service, one that would open the door to a world he’d only so much as heard of.

For the first time in a long while, there was _something_ he was looking forward to.

* * *

From the moment Thomas mailed his first application to London, with a few more that followed, his days slowed from a languid stroll to an offensively slow crawl. He waited; he smoked; he polished silver; he did anything and everything he could to veer his mind off from its relentless wondering of _what-ifs_.

The possibility of being too fastidious in his selection of job advertisements didn’t elude him, for he knew all too well that beggars can’t be choosers. Then again, it wasn’t as though the Crawleys were champing at the bit for his resignation; certainly he could afford to take his time in this endeavour. This knowledge did little to quell his restlessness, however; by the end of the first week he started to wonder if he would survive this ordeal at all.

Although Thomas hadn’t breathed a word to another soul of his intentions, it was apparent, when Baxter joined him at the table in the servants’ hall with an inquisitive stare, that he had become all but an open book to anyone who cared to look. It was strange, even now, to think there _was_ someone who did care; perhaps what was even stranger was he didn’t mind too much, when his younger self would no doubt had balked at the prospect of being so transparent against his own volition.

“Mr Barrow.” Baxter’s soft voice sounded almost loud in the otherwise empty hall amidst the night. She sidled into the chair across the table. “You would mention if something is going on, wouldn’t you?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.

Thomas would’ve lamented her keen perception, yet - if it weren’t for such a thing, he wouldn’t be alive to see this day. With this acknowledgment, he closed the book he’d been reading and said, wryly, “Nothing as ominous as you seem to think.”

“That’s a good start,” she said, smiling.

A moment passed, before Thomas gathered the courage to say: “I’ve been looking into other opportunities.” He focused his eyes on a distant pattern on the wall, not quite able to meet her gaze, when a surprising bout of guilt passed over him. “Beyond service; something different,” he added, at the dawning confusion in her eyes.

“Oh,” she said, eventually. In silence she took a sip of her tea, as though encouraging Thomas to elaborate if he chose to.

“It’s just, after I -” He halted, as he always did whenever he revisited the solemn period in his life, one that he thought he’d put behind him, yet - as he struggled with the words, he thought, perhaps he wasn’t quite so yet. “I want to do other things, see what else there is. I’m grateful for my place here, really I am, and I hope Lord and Lady Grantham would understand that when I do tell them.” The words tumbled out of him before he could stop them. “Is it so wrong to wonder what it’s like out there? To want to see what lies beyond the walls of Downton?”

Baxter reached across the table and gave his hand a little squeeze. “Not at all.”

They talked, for a while; relieved to have a listening ear, Thomas volunteered some information regarding his applications, discussing the few clubs and hotels he’d written to. Amidst it all he’d let slipped his uncertainty pertaining towards his lacking experience in the industry, to which she reassured, with conviction, his extensive background in domestic service would surely prove to be useful. His apprehension abated somewhat at that, which was if not a little embarrassing, for he was a grown man, and, really, he ought to have known such a thing.

As their conversation receded to a silence, he realised, with a bit of sadness, he would miss her when he was gone. “Can you keep this between us, for the moment?” he asked, before they turned in for the night.

“Of course.” She gave a soft smile. “Good night, Mr Barrow.”

* * *

A month and a half later, when Thomas had almost given up hope on hearing back from any of the precincts he had written to, the telephone rang. In other circumstances he would’ve answered it without a qualm; now, he simply watched the phone ring before his eyes, his heart speeding up with trepidation -

“Are you going to answer that, Mr Barrow?” Andy asked, stopping by the doorway of the pantry as he regarded Thomas with bewilderment.

Thomas snapped out of his stupor and picked up the phone, sending a half-hearted glare towards Andy as a deterrent from eavesdropping. “You’ve reached Downton Abbey. This is Barrow speaking.”

“Am I talking to a Thomas Barrow, who’ve applied for the Astor Club’s posting on the role of Assistant Club Manager?” the voice said through the receiver.

Half so dazed by what he was hearing, Thomas managed a meek, “Yes,” before he cleared his throat and said, more confidently, “That’s correct.”

“Excellent. This is Carter speaking. After reviewing your application, we would like to have you in for an interview,” the man said. “Are you able to come in this Thursday?”

“Yes, Mr Carter,” Thomas said, perhaps too prematurely; it would be rather late notice for him to apply for a leave of absence now. Still, Downton Abbey should certainly remain standing without his presence for a day or two.

Thomas jotted down the details of the appointment and hung up the phone.

* * *

The next few days were naught but a blur as Thomas prepared for his trip to London. His request for some time away had been an awkward conversation with Lord Grantham, for he’d had to scour for a reasonable excuse to explain his abrupt absence; in this case, a fictional relative of his had fallen victim to a terrible illness and, unfortunately, time was of the essence. Thomas had been tempted to reveal the truth, for it was only so inevitable a thing, but it had been hardly the right moment.

On Thursday morning, when the sun was barely skirting the horizon, dressed in his nicest suit Thomas departed for London by way of the earliest train. He settled into his designated seat in one of the third-class carriages, next to an elderly man who was poring over the newspaper through his glasses. With a nod of greeting, Thomas allowed himself a smoke for a companion, as he rehearsed his responses in his mind to imaginary questions.

With such preoccupation, Thomas’s journey to the capital felt only half as long as it usually did, which was, frankly, both a blessing and a curse; he was _objectively_ prepared, of course, yet the doubt within him simmered, as it yearned for just a little more time.

Stepping onto the streets of London, Thomas longed to wander about the city amidst the mild breeze that carried the farewells of summer, yet as time pressed up against the walls around him, the only thing he could do was to catch a hansom cab to the Astor Club. He disembarked on 45 Dover Street, Mayfair; before him loomed the aforementioned precinct. For an instant, Thomas imagined, with shocking clarity, of a time he would walk into such a place, and felt as though he belonged.

He shook his head; he was getting ahead of himself, rather.

The afternoon sun bore down on Thomas as he stood outside the entrance, appraising the building before him. Never had he stepped foot in such vicinity, though he had heard of gentlemen’s clubs, of course - from offhand remarks from Lord Grantham, among other toffs during dinner conversations. This moment would mark the first - of many, perhaps - when Thomas would, finally, see one for himself.

Pushing through the imposing mahogany door, he stepped into the entrance hall. Within, sunlight ceased completely, by courtesy of the crimson opaque curtains that draped over every window; lit by myriads of lamps, chandeliers and ceiling lights, it seemed the place existed wholly independent of the passing of time itself. A grand counter sat in the middle of the foyer, its darkened timber complementing the rest of the decor. Beyond the reception was a set of double sliding doors that he guessed would lead to the actual club itself.

With an uncertainty that Thomas hoped wasn’t too palpable, he approached the receptionist.

“Welcome to the Astor Club,” the young man said. “May I witness your proof of membership before you proceed, sir?”

“I’m here for an interview,” Thomas said. “Thomas Barrow. I was told to ask for Mr Carter.”

“Certainly,” the man - _Victor_ , his name tag read - said. “I’ll inform Mr Carter of your arrival, Mr Barrow.” He disappeared behind the wooden sliding doors, on which there was an engraved brass sign that read ‘Members Only’.

A few minutes had passed before Victor emerged with an older man, and he slipped back to his place behind the counter. The man - who Thomas presumed to be Carter - looked to be of similar years to Carson, but not nearly with the same girth. His face appeared stern, though it was rather free of the weathering one might expect from a man of his age, by way of having worked in a place so starkly free of the sun, perhaps.

“Mr Barrow, isn’t it?” The man shook Thomas’s hand. “Frank Carter. Pleasure to finally meet you.”

They exchanged pleasantries, briefly, before Thomas followed Carter through the door. It led into what appeared to be the main parlour room, extensive as one would expect, modestly occupied - for it was but the waning of the Season - with upper class gentlemen, ranging from barely-weaned boys turned men not too long ago, to ones closer to Thomas’s own age. A few older men lingered about, though they seemed to mingle amongst themselves, perchance to collectively bemoan the younger generations.

“It’s quiet in the afternoon,” Carter said beside Thomas. “They usually come in the evening, though there’s some who visit during the day as well during the Season, to escape the throes of matrimony - or so I’ve heard,” Carter added with subdued amusement in his tone.

They journeyed from the parlour room and into the library, before eventually reaching Carter’s office. Unlike the sections of the club in which patrons frequented, the office was unassuming, though cosy; it had the essential furniture one would need in an office, and a small sofa, which lined one of the walls, accompanied with a small coffee table. On the other side of the room was a closed door.

“That’s where you’ll be working if all goes well today,” Carter said, following Thomas’s gaze towards the door that likely led to another office. He sat on the chair behind his desk and retrieved a folder from his drawer. Glancing up at Thomas, he said, “Sorry, I forget - would you like some tea, or water, Mr Barrow?”

Thomas declined politely, taking his seat across the table from Carter. Whilst Carter searched for Thomas’s application, Thomas shifted on his seat, willing himself to get _comfortable_ despite it all. His efforts were futile, for all he’d managed to achieve was escalate his anxiety until he ached for a cigarette.

“Do you mind if I smoke?” Thomas asked.

Carter lifted his gaze from the document before him, narrowing it ever slightly. For a moment, Thomas feared he’d ruined his chance before he’d even started, until Carter said, measuredly, “Go ahead, Mr Barrow.”

Thomas did just that, though with some reticence.

“It says here you’ve worked in domestic service for sixteen years.” Carter appraised Thomas with an unnerving stare. “And you served as an army medic during the Great War,” he said, skimming Thomas’s application, “until you were sent to a work at a hospital following an injury.”

Thomas nodded, before reminding himself to say, “Yes, sir.”

“Does that injury impede any of your current duties?”

“Not at all, Mr Carter.” Thomas raised his scarred hand, running his fingers across the leather glove. “It’s completely healed.”

“Good.” Carter leaned back on his chair. “What’s brought on your sudden desire to leave this industry you’re so familiar with, if I may ask?”

“I decided it was time for something new. To see the world through a different lens, so to speak,” Thomas said. “Having served at a House for so long, somewhere along the way I realised I’d stopped learning. Surely you know, Mr Carter, to stop learning is to stop growing.” As Thomas concluded his rehearsed sentence, he felt unexpectedly proud of himself, despite the use of an adage one might consider trite.

Fortunately, it appeared Mr Carter did not. “Good,” was all he said - again - before his eyes returned to the application before him.

“And what made you consider me?” Thomas asked apropos of nothing, with a little audacity he hoped wasn’t out of bounds. “I suppose there would be plenty of others more qualified, yet I’m here today.”

Carter set down the document and regarded Thomas with impressive steadiness. “Being _qualified_ doesn’t, by default, make one suitable for this job, Mr Barrow.” He toyed with the pen in his hand, briefly, before setting it upon the table. “There are so many of these fools prancing around the West End like they’ve seen everything. Of course, they think they can do it all, that nothing can ever fail under their watch,” he said, and paused for a moment. “But they’re only _one_ side of a coin; it’s all they know from having been in this godforsaken industry, in this _one city,_ their whole lives. What I need, Mr Barrow, is the other side of the same coin. A fresh perspective to the situation.”

Thomas mulled over his words. “And you think I could provide that?”

“You,” Carter said, checking his watch, “ _or_ one of the three others I’ll be meeting after you leave.” He put his hands together in one gentle clap. “Now, shall we begin?”

* * *

Thomas had never known the true meaning of impatience until now; if waiting for a response to a job application had felt tedious, then, waiting for the outcome of an interview was nothing short of agonising.

One thing that did, somewhat, abate his agitation was receiving an offer to another interview. With anticipation - and perhaps gross optimism that might prove to be his undoing yet - he declined it. It hardly seemed worth the effort, when his appointment with Carter had gone rather well - in his eyes, at any rate; what a ghastly prospect it would be if he’d missed the phone call, or letter of acceptance, because he’d been at another interview which might very well be inferior.

Yet, the days went on without any news, sowing the seeds of his doubt by the hour. Two weeks had passed, and Thomas was starting to regret declining the latter interview, when he received a telegram from the Astor Club, on a fine August morning.

After much deliberation that lasted well into the night - for he was, truthfully, _terrified_ of facing a possible rejection - he opened the letter in the privacy of his own room.

_9th August 1926_

_Dear Mr Barrow,_

_The Astor Club is pleased to bring you on board as the Assistant Club Manager._

_We ask that you take the time to review our formal offer below. It details your compensation, and the terms and conditions of your anticipated employment with us._

_The Astor Club is offering a full-time position for you as the Assistant Club Manager, reporting to the Manager, who is currently Mr Frank Carter. The starting date will be on 1st September 1926 at 45-46 Dover St, Mayfair, London. Expected hours of work are Wednesday and Thursday, from 10:00 AM to 6:00 PM, and Friday to Sunday, from 6:00 PM to 2:00 AM._

_In this position, the Astor Club is offering to you a starting salary of £200.00 a year, subject to increase annually through performance reviews. You will be paid monthly, starting on 15th September 1926._

_Should you decide to accept this offer, please sign and date the form attached and return to the address above before 20th August, after which you will commence your role, on 1st September._

_Sincerely,_

_Frank Carter_ _(Club Manager)_

Thomas folded the letter, carefully, and put it away.

He didn't sleep a wink that night.


	2. Philip I: Under the Rose

A townhouse stood on 18 Albemarle Street, Mayfair.

It was striking, grand and utterly superfluous - yet, for all its vanity, there existed an undercurrent of charm that only bore its soul to those it had sheltered.

The house appeared just as Philip remembered it, as would his father and grandfather, had they been alive today. One could _almost_ tell himself nothing had changed, yet it couldn’t be further from the truth; this house had been a home once, until one August afternoon in 1920, when it had been sold to a particularly gaudy American businessman, all for the sake of keeping what was left of the Crowborough estate on its last legs.

It was a dreadful waste, to be sure, like everything else that served to simply prolong the inevitable, yet one oughtn't to be blamed for trying.

Now, as Philip stood beyond its gates, it had been six years since he could no longer call the place home; what a bizarre thought.

The sun dipped below the horizon; it was time to move along.

Philip gave the building one final look - or so he promised himself, just as he’d done many a time over the years whenever he visited the city - and continued down the road.

* * *

When Philip arrived at the corner building on Chester Street, he glanced around him, reflexively, for any inquisitive eyes before he entered. Akin to the last dozen occasions he’d done such a thing, he was, for better or worse, left to his own devices. Beyond the entrance, up the marble staircase he proceeded, and stopped in front of the hardwood door that marked ‘2-02’.

Already, Philip could breathe a little easier.

The door opened before he so much as knocked. “There you are,” Isaac said with a languid smile. In the shadows, his light hair and lighter eyes darkened a touch, bringing forth a certain draw that seemed to thrive after dusk. “I thought you’d gotten lost.”

“Is that likely?” Philip let himself into Isaac’s flat. “When I’d found my way here during nights past, all but two sheets to the wind?” Only now he was terribly sober. It was a fact he sought to remedy as he approached the liquor cabinet, which housed only the finest; Isaac’s sensational taste across all things in life were one of the many reasons Philip was here on this night, and - certainly - for many more to come.

Philip poured two serves of brandy. As Isaac drained the contents of his glass in a fell swoop, Philip could only do the same. A few more glasses later, their half-hearted pleasantries ceased until their world was all but silent, and within this world, there was no light except for what had managed to peek through Isaac’s windows from distant street lamps.

It was easier this way, in the dark, so Philip stepped into Isaac’s arms; here was the place he felt only contentment, and Philip kissed him without reserve, for a thing like so had never even been as hinted at the space between them, not since their first meeting amongst a den that endorsed all things high on the catalogue of sins.

Years ago it had been, just as the Spanish flu had ebbed its fatal grip about the nation, when they had found each other in that hazy night. After a drink too many and a hit of chloroform to his head, what little was left of Philip’s caution had been cast off the precipice, as it would be for anything and anyone beautiful - and Isaac was, unequivocally, _beautiful_ ; there were few things Philip had encountered that he had truly perceived to be so, and there were too many times he had let such things slip through his grasp for the sorry reasons of reputation and propriety and tradition.

A bitter lesson it was when Philip had been granted his first taste of such a misfortune; it was an evening, more than a decade ago, when he'd let go of his loveliest dream, one that Philip realised, distantly, he had forgotten the face of. A servant this man - _Thomas -_ had been, and for his beauty and the life he'd kissed into Philip’s mouth, this long lost romance, fleeting as it was, had been Philip's greatest tragedy, even greater than the one that god and everyone else on his green Earth had damned men like them for.

How Philip had longed to damn them all and, oh, how he _did_ as he took Isaac to bed amidst the decadent embrace of blasphemy.

* * *

Awaking beside Isaac was, by all means, pleasant, though without the influence of fine liquor and finer sweet nothings, the morning after was never half so alluring as the night before.

Indeed, it wasn’t, Philip thought as he grimaced through a throbbing headache. Sitting up on the bed, he glanced at Isaac beside him; he was fast asleep still, even as the morning strained against the threat of noon, though one would find it difficult to tell, for the room was ever dim, by way of the thick velvet curtains that draped across every window.

Gently, Philip removed himself from the sheets and slipped back into his clothes. He padded out of Isaac’s bedchamber and, amidst the quietness, he found himself wandering about the flat. It was a place that felt to him familiar and foreign at once, for his arrival, time and again, would take them straight from the front door to Isaac’s bed and, later that night, or sometimes, the next morning, Philip would leave without so much as another gander of the life that he had walked into.

This arrangement between them had, somehow, withstood the test of time, not that there _was_ much to be tested to begin with; yet, at some point or another, Philip had come to perceive their sporadic affair as a reprieve that Isaac was, for whatever reason, all too willing to accommodate.

Lost in his musing, Philip had come upon a glass cabinet, which sat along the corridor that led from Isaac’s chamber. There were various trinkets behind the glass, souvenirs from Isaac’s travels across Europe, America, a few from East Asia, even. It was the first time Philip had granted this display a second look, which was why he only noticed now the portrait of a woman amidst the collection; a young, delicate lady she was, with a mild smile and gentle eyes. It didn’t require much conjecture for Philip to deduce it was Isaac’s late wife, who had been taken from the world all too prematurely by the flu.

Isaac had loved her; of that Philip was certain, for there had been a time, just once, when Philip had awoken to Isaac’s quiet sobbing beside him, in the blackness of night, as he clutched a crumpled photograph to his chest. At Philip’s notice, Isaac had wiped away his tears, shoved the picture in his pocket, and left the room with a muttered apology.

They had never spoken of that incident and, Philip realised, with crippling shame, that he didn’t _want_ to, for the selfish reason of his reluctance in besmirching their trysts with something so hideously _real_ ; the following morning, when Isaac had greeted him with a carefree kiss as though nothing were amiss, Philip knew then, on this they both agreed.

With this parting thought, he closed the door to Isaac’s residence and into the real world he entered.

* * *

In the eyes of everyone in his life, Philip’s relentless hold on what had been his second home would be nothing short of madness, and it was because of this supposed madness that, after another wandering down the memory lane, he witnessed a thing so whimsical, he thought perhaps he really _had_ gone mad.

From a distance, Philip saw a man - who bore a shocking similarity to Thomas Barrow that he simply _couldn’t_ be anyone else - exited a motor cab and entered one of the gentlemen’s clubs that littered across the district. Despite what his very eyes had seen, the notion of _Thomas_ and a place like that waged such dissonance in Philip’s mind that he dismissed the prospect of Thomas ever being there at all.

A trick of the light, Philip told himself; after all, with the decade and a half that had passed since their parting, who was to say the image of Thomas in Philip’s mind wasn’t anything but askew?

In any case, with the time he had wasted mourning for a life so far gone, there was little of it left for further indulgence in sentimentalities; the entire purpose of his trip to London was to visit the Bank of England, and with these distractions at hand, he had almost forgotten to do so.

It was high time he did _something_ productive.

* * *

Philip’s attempt at productivity, in the end, did not yield the intended results.

“Well?” Cynthia demanded by way of greeting when he arrived back at Crowborough Manor that evening. “Please tell me your trip wasn’t for nothing.”

It certainly hadn’t been for _nothing,_ insofar as Philip’s private life was concerned, though he was hardly about to divulge that tidbit of information to his wife. On the other hand, as much as he loathed to be the bearer of bad news, he couldn’t quite hide this _other_ particular truth from Cynthia that required them to sell another ten thousand acres of the estate, if they were to have any hope of preserving the rest of it.

He told her as much, to which she sulked, quietly, before leaving Philip’s study.

In all honesty, he would be glad to sell every blasted thing he owned, if it meant he could be rid of this tiresome cycle between applying for funds only to be turned away, and disposing yet another part of the land to keep themselves afloat. It was by courtesy of sheer stubbornness they had persisted for so long, and if it weren’t for Philip’s pride and Cynthia’s rapidly dwindling American wealth, Crowborough would be no more.

The notion spurred a newfound determination within Philip as he settled into the chair behind his desk; for a moment he felt as though he _could_ solve all of their problems, though when he was greeted by a thick pile of letters, which, without a doubt, would detail increasingly staggering taxes and demands to lower rental payments, his resolution deflated, all at once, and he was left utterly exhausted and wondering just when his life had been reduced to _this_.

Regardless, Philip sifted through them, one by one. He wrote cheques where required, words of rejection where he could afford to, words of acquiescence where he couldn’t. After what felt like hours, the writings began to blur before his eyes, and he set down his pen.

He jerked awake to Bennett’s quiet voice.

“Apologies, Your Grace, perhaps it would do you well to turn in for the night,” the butler said, standing a distance away from Philip. “I’ll be closing up the Manor.”

Philip gathered the stack of telegrams and placed them into his drawer. Rising to his feet, he nodded towards Bennett. “Good night, then.”

“Would you like me to come up, Your Grace?”

Philip waved a hand. “Don’t bother. Just because the Duchess insists on being dressed by another in this day and age, doesn’t mean I am, too,” he said with a smile devoid of amusement. “We ought to change with the times, wouldn’t you say?”

“Certainly, Your Grace.”

Philip proceeded up the staircase, which was once rather grand, but now, with the negligence as a result of Crowborough’s diminished staff, it did leave much to be desired. Be that as it may, it wasn’t as though the Manor was about to entertain anytime soon, or for the foreseeable future, so it didn’t leave too many people to lament its deterioration; certainly Cynthia would not, for her intermittent absence did suggest to Philip that Crowborough had turned into somewhat of a temporary lodging for her.

When Philip stopped by their bedchamber, his suspicion was confirmed; she was long gone. Although he didn’t know _when_ she would be back, he knew, in a day or two, or a week, she would return, and when she did, he wouldn’t ask questions, just as she never did when he would, similarly, vanish for bouts of time.

If there was anything worth salvaging in their marriage, it would be this unspoken, yet indisputable truce they had settled into after the last few tumultuous years between them.

It was with this liberating thought that Philip fell asleep. That night, he dreamed of Thomas, and for the first time in years amongst such dreams, he could see Thomas’s face with a refreshed clarity.

What a relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, I had such great fun creating Philip's background for this story.


	3. Thomas II: On the Eve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone is staying healthy and safe in these trying times.

Thomas was no stranger to farewells. There had been many occasions, without a single regard to his say in the matter, people had left his life; his mother had been the first, and he realised, with not a little bitterness, she had also been the last to do so unintentionally, for there was only so much one could do in the face of a terminal illness.

The rest of them, for one reason or another, had walked out of Thomas’s life of their own accord: his first love, who was a boy he had fancied in their days of adolescence when they would barely recognise love even if it spelled itself to them; a few years later, it had been Philip’s turn - their time together had been wondrously enjoyable until it wasn’t, like a fantasy twisting into a nightmare before he’d been all too ready. Thomas had recovered from that, eventually, only to be left again, during the war, by Edward; that hurt, too, though Thomas couldn’t help but be ashamed in feeling like so, for the pain of being left behind wouldn’t _begin_ to compare to the pain of wanting to leave it all in the first place _._

Thomas understood the feeling, perhaps too intimately; he tried not to dwell on it, all the same.

Today, he was the one to go; there was some liberation in such a thing, even if he did loathe leaving the faces he had come to know far better in the past year than he'd known in the decade. Although not too long ago he had parted ways with Downton Abbey, the circumstances of his farewell hadn’t felt all too _permanent_ ; this time, however, his departure was not only from the place he called home, but also life as he had known it.

* * *

Thomas stepped out of King’s Cross and into the breeze of autumn that welcomed him with startling fervour. He shivered, clutching his coat closer around himself with one hand and carrying his suitcase with the other, and it was this moment he felt the grief he had endured in downsizing his life to one bag was thoroughly worth it.

He caught the bus to the inn where he had booked himself a room, which turned out to be a longer journey from the station than he’d anticipated, by way of London’s obscene traffic more so than simple distance. He cursed himself for the shortsightedness, before attempting to pacify his ill mood with a cigarette; it would hardly be conducive to start his new life with a frame of mind so foul.

What ought to have been fifteen minutes stretched to an hour; when Thomas reached his destination, the sky, which had been a blanket of grey upon his arrival at London, was now imbued in pale auburn as the sun began its descent. He checked into his room; it was modestly sized and only half so comfortable, though it was sufficient for the week or two Thomas would likely require to find long-term accommodation.

Through the thick of his exhaustion, Thomas explored the West End that evening. Although he was far from unacquainted with the district - especially in his days as a footman with the Seasons under his belt - it was peculiar, regardless, to wander the place as not quite a patron and definitely not a servant; he didn’t know what he was now, for his previous life in service, which had so cemented his identity in his and everyone else’s eyes, was no more.

It was all right, he supposed, not knowing what, or even who he was, even if it seemed akin to traversing the streets stark naked; with no colleagues with whom he had worked and lived with breathing down his neck, unintentionally or not, it did feel to Thomas like there was plenty of time to find a place for himself in this world, though he wondered if such a thing was rather late, for a grown man like him. Then again, it was better late than never.

As Thomas came across a shop for menswear, he decided, with a little impulse and not a little entitlement, to reward himself for surviving the trying day, or weeks even, he’d had; he purchased a pair of silver cufflinks, sufficiently understated for his new line of work- but handsome enough for any evenings out, not that Thomas’s schedule was filled to the brim with invitations as such - still, it was exciting to think about.

When he turned in for the night, he did so only after carefully laying out his painstakingly selected garb for the next morning, for it would be his first day of work and he wouldn’t be caught dead looking anything less than pristine. And so it was with this silly sort of confidence, yet a trace of apprehension all the same, that he fell asleep on the eve of greater things.

* * *

As Thomas entered the Astor Club the next day, the way his heart jumped in his chest drove him to wonder if there would come a time he would stop feeling like a fish out of water in this place. Then again, a gentlemen’s club _wasn’t_ too different, in principle, from a House, for its purpose was to provide a space akin to a second home to the men who could afford it, and within it to mingle amongst their sort. What did make the difference was they could come and go as they pleased with no scrutiny from one’s wife and sisters and other feminine company, and perhaps that was, ultimately, the draw of it all.

Thomas began the day with a tour of the vicinity, which was provided by his manager, Frank Carter.

“It should go without saying this is the lobby, where new patrons’ memberships are verified prior to entry,” Carter said as they approached the reception desk. “And this is Victor, the face of the Astor Club, though I believe you’ve met.”

Victor shook hands with Thomas regardless, flashing a polite smile. “Great to have you with us, Mr Barrow.” Although his voice was pleasant, his dark eyes were an impeccable mask, perhaps by courtesy of the customer-facing nature of his role. The man looked just as flawless as Thomas remembered on the day of his interview, with not a crease in his uniform and not a hair out of place; Carson would be proud, Thomas thought idly.

Thomas followed Carter through the door that led from the lobby. “This is the first of the three parlour rooms here at the Astor Club.” Carter headed towards the bartender, who appeared to be checking the liquor stock behind the counter and scribbling notes on a paper pad, and introduced them to each other, though by the time Thomas reached the next part of the tour, he had, with a little guilt, all but forgotten the name.

The next twenty minutes unravelled in a similar fashion as Carter guided Thomas through each area of the Club. When the tour was finished, they returned to Thomas’s office, where Carter handed Thomas a document that detailed his job description and the specifics of his tasks: arranging the work schedule of the staff, ensuring the Club’s compliance to health and safety regulations, preparing ledger accounts, amongst many others; although the list was large and daunting at first sight, Thomas was quite relieved to discover most of which was similar, to an extent, to his duties as a butler.

“As detailed in your form of employment, the Club provides subsidised accommodation for its staff,” Carter said as Thomas flipped through the documents. “The dorms are behind the main building; obviously it would thoroughly reduce one commute should they choose to take advantage. In the end, it’s your decision.”

“Thank you, Mr Carter,” Thomas said, despite himself; with him _finally_ able to indulge in his own space, he was hardly about to waste such an opportunity, higher cost of living - and longer commute - be damned.

Thomas spent the morning reviewing his duties, and the rest of his afternoon was occupied by the tediously large documentation of occupational health and safety hazards, which, according to Carter, was exceedingly imperative. Thomas quickly learned that such a topic was as imperative as it was mind-numbing; with each page Thomas’s enthusiasm ebbed, and it was by way of his own reminder that things would look up once this bitch of a reading was done, that he endured a few more hours; when he inadvertently started to scan the same sentence about hazard management for the fourth time, he set down his pen and paper, lit a cigarette and began to browse the newspaper.

He searched for the section that detailed vacant flat listings; all too predictably, most of the rentals within the local district were well beyond his budget - unless he resorted to flatmates, which was, frankly, out of the question if he had any say in the matter - which he _did_.

It was fortunate that Thomas had his own office, despite its small size; the remainder of the afternoon slipped through his fingers whilst he pored over the myriads of accommodations, instead of doing what he _should_ be. The next time he glanced at the clock, it was almost time to finish up. Feeling rather guilty, he stayed back a little longer to complete the section of the report he had prematurely left off at, before packing up for the day.

When he left the Club, his instinct was to head towards the bus stop, though at the last moment, he decided to visit the flat listings around Mayfair he had seen on the day’s paper to satiate his curiosity, if nothing else.

Thomas crossed the road and turned into Albemarle Street. As he walked along the pavement, sweeping his eyes over hotels and clubs and various aristocratic dwellings, he stopped short in front of a mansion that appeared strikingly familiar; it was Philip’s London residence, Thomas recalled, a little belatedly. It sat a mere street over from the Astor Club, a fact that had completely eluded Thomas until now. So many years ago it had been, since Thomas had set foot in Seymour House at Philip’s invitation, during restless summer days laced with greenness and youth’s frenzy for what lay beyond the tips of their fingers.

They had been so young, then.

When the front door opened, and from it emerged what looked like office workers, Thomas stared at them, bewildered, before noticing the sign by the gate, which read ‘Jones Consulting Group’, and he realised then - Philip’s residence was no more.

The knowledge sat oddly within Thomas, as he studied the building from beyond its walls; he was surprised to feel a little sadness for Philip’s loss, even now, and he pondered how long it’d been, since the day this house was sold. It didn’t matter, Thomas thought, for he knew, without a doubt, to Philip it would always feel as freshly as the day it had happened; Philip had given him a tour once, when Philip had, somehow, managed to rid themselves of his servants for an afternoon, and to Thomas he had shown around the place with a muted affection that Thomas had found charming at the time.

In hindsight, he couldn’t help but wonder if Philip had been speaking out of affection for his homestead or for Thomas himself, or both; it had always been hard for Thomas to tell if Philip did ever care for him - he was always so generous with his affection, in both words and action. Thomas had admired that about him, amongst other things.

Be that as it may, their brief romance was but a distant song in Thomas’s history, yet as he stood before this building it rushed back to him with unforeseen clarity, and he thought about what Philip would be doing now, if he was in London, or Crowborough, or god forbid he had upped and left the country altogether -

Thomas continued down the street.

* * *

Driven by a melancholy fascination that Thomas couldn’t bring himself to resist, for the next few days, he visited the House when he had a moment to spare at work; every time he did, his memories with Philip would surface, timidly at first, before he lost himself amidst such reveries, only to wallow in self-reproach, afterwards, for indulging in what essentially amounted to masochism.

During Thomas’s visit in a hazy Thursday morning, what had been simple memories became much more, when he saw Philip standing by the gate, gazing at what used to be his abode; for all the hurt they had caused each other by the end of it, Thomas _didn’t_ want to begrudge himself this simple thing, so he watched Philip for a while, from a distance, with no intention of approaching him because _this -_ this was enough. Vaguely, Thomas was aware that he was running late as it was, yet not _caring_ all the same, because _Philip_ was there before his eyes and it did seem ever unreal.

When Philip glanced towards Thomas’s direction, it struck him like a physical force and jarred Thomas back into the present. Without further ado, Thomas crossed the street, ducking his head and adjusting his hat as an attempt to hide his face, praying that Philip hadn’t recognised him, yet hoping he _would -_

Thomas chanced a glimpse over his shoulder; their eyes met across the road, and Thomas turned away. It was only when he arrived in front of the Astor Club that he noticed the frantic beating of his heart. Drawing a deep breath, he granted himself a smoke, and stepped through the door.


	4. Philip II: A Question of Serendipity

If there was any doubt left in Philip as to whether it was Thomas he had seen, it was altogether eradicated when Thomas balked at his attention and hastened away before Philip could so much as blink.

As he watched Thomas hurry down the street, there was but a voice in his mind, urging him - softly, yet with startling urgency - to do _something,_ for Thomas had been the one that got away and god forbid should history repeat itself -

But it had been a different time, a different life; Philip was no longer the man Thomas had known, no longer the man who had whispered to him promises as sweet as they were empty even if he’d _meant_ them all the same, no longer the man before he married, before the war, before the world had thrown a spanner in the works worth its weight a thousand times over.

Now, they were but strangers to one another. With Thomas’s blatant evasion of him, a man more sensible would deem it best to leave matters alone; although only time would reveal if it was fortunate Philip wasn’t such a man, for now, this conviction itself was enough to propel him forward, until he found himself in front of a club he was, lamentably, unfamiliar with.

It was a place where Thomas should typically have no business in frequenting - which, curiously, left employment as the most probable reason, thus it was with the aim of confirming this presumption that Philip entered the venue.

“Welcome to the Astor Club. May I witness your proof of membership before you proceed, sir?” the receptionist asked as Philip approached.

“I was hoping you could assist with a matter,” Philip said with a pleasant smile. “Is there an employee here by the name of Thomas Barrow, by any chance?” Even as Philip raised the question, he was all too aware of bordering on impertinence; still, it was the least of his concerns at present.

The man replied with stiff politeness, “I’m afraid I’m not authorised to disclose information pertaining to our staff, sir.”

“Only, you see, _Victor_ ,” Philip said as he glanced at the man’s name tag, “Barrow had served me at Crowborough Manor not too long ago, before returning to Downton Abbey, where he worked for Lord Grantham.” It occurred to Philip this lie would come apart if Thomas had, in fact, no longer been at Downton Abbey in recent years; he pressed on, regardless: “So you understand my curiosity, I hope. Of course, if it _is_ sensitive information I do apologise...” Philip let his sentence fade into an encouraging silence.

“Not at all, sir.” Victor paused, as though debating with himself whether to breach company policy; Philip wondered if he really did appear so suspicious as to warrant this level of caution. “Mr Barrow has recently started with us here, after leaving his career in domestic service.”

“Ah, is that so,” Philip said quietly, more to himself than Victor. “Thank you, that is all.”

* * *

Later that morning, on the way to Isaac’s studio, Philip continued to turn over his recent discovery in his mind; from his inquiry, it was clear Thomas now resided in London - or at least _somewhere_ around it - as opposed to two hundred miles away in the country. This knowledge alone sent a dizzying rush to his head, for it meant, from time to time, they would be in the same city, breathing the same air.

Such a saccharine thought it was that Philip vowed to himself to never entertain it again, yet he was unable to resist the comfort in knowing he could, in fact, see Thomas if he chose to whenever he frequented London; he wouldn’t need to do much more than cross a few streets, or a catch a short ride in a motor cab.

Although this turn of events was, undoubtedly, a thing ever incredible, the night of their dissolution, for all the time that had passed since, felt to Philip even now like having a knife slashed across what had been his most delightful picture. The question of who had wielded this knife was one he’d pondered, on occasion, in the months that followed, and to this day it remained unresolved; perhaps they had both been to blame, with Thomas keeping Philip’s letters for reasons so sentimental and nefarious at once, with Philip _understanding_ him well enough to know what he could be capable of, with Philip pulling the rug from under Thomas’s feet before things could take a turn for the uglier.

It was a battle of wits Philip had scraped a sorry victory from, and now, fourteen years later, was it worth salvaging when it had ended with such finality?

With a sigh, Philip shelved the thought as he reached Isaac’s studio at Belgrave Square. Upon entering the vicinity, he was greeted by the sight of a nude woman - older, with a soft stomach and breasts sagged with age, and long brown hair that sprawled along her body - laying across the velvet sofa, which was Isaac’s typical choice of furniture for his subjects. Philip wondered what Isaac saw in her that was compelling enough to warrant a painting; then again, whilst he did appreciate art that favoured the aesthetically-pleasing, he wasn’t quite so well-versed in the technicalities of aesthetics - if there existed a thing like that - thus he remained quiet as he poured himself some gin from the cabinet, before settling into the armchair in the corner.

Isaac, who had all but ignored Philip’s arrival in favour of finishing a section of his work, glanced at Philip and gave a smile of acknowledgment, to which he reciprocated with a reserved one of his own before Isaac returned to his craft.

At the silent behest of the woman’s uneasy glances at Philip, he let his eyes wander the studio, instead, which was adorned with oil canvases - some of which were completed, and the others abandoned, so much so that it was a marvel Philip could see any of its walls. Here was a place Philip frequented far less than he did Isaac’s dwelling, though it certainly was charming in its way; each painting, finished or not, felt like a world of its own that welcomed visitors from all walks of life without prejudice.

“Is there a reason you don’t bring any of these back to your flat?” Philip had asked the first time Isaac showed him the studio, on a quiet Sunday afternoon, three months after their initial encounter.

“I don’t like to think of Marjorie when I’m home,” had been Isaac’s quiet answer.

Philip had left it at that.

Presently, his gaze shifted from the myriads of artworks to the sofa, which was now empty, for the session had concluded and the woman was all but dressed. She had a brief exchange with Isaac, followed by him reimbursing her for her time, before she left without another glance at Philip.

Once the door had closed behind her, with a grin Philip said, “One might say it’s compensation enough to paint the likes of her.”

Isaac plucked the glass from Philip’s hand and finished the drink. “Must you be unkind?” His tone was light, with a careful edge.

Philip smirked. “I don’t recall ever claiming to be otherwise.”

Isaac paced towards the cabinet to refill Philip’s glass. “I know.”

From his chair Philip rose, and walked up behind Isaac. Taking Isaac into his arms, Philip brushed his mouth against the nape of his neck, gently, feeling Isaac pause at the contact. Isaac set the drink upon the cabinet and turned around to catch Philip in a kiss. They remained so, for a while, kissing lazily in the early-afternoon sun, with Isaac pressed up against the liquor shelf and Philip’s fingers through the curls of his golden hair, which was so very _opposite_ of Thomas; his lips, too, felt different, though Philip didn’t quite remember _how_ so, and for that, an abrupt sadness arose within him and jarred him from the moment. Philip paused, pulling back, and avoided Isaac’s bewildered stare by leaning his forehead against his collarbone, closing his eyes.

“What is it?” Isaac asked, softly.

Philip said nothing and kissed him again. Isaac didn’t question further and, instead, brought his hands to Philip’s vest and undid the buttons, then, to his shirt, and when all was said and done, their clothes were but a heap on the floor, at which Philip wondered, distantly, if his coat had been stained by a wayward streak of paint -

“Do you know much about the Astor Club?” Philip asked before he could stop himself.

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“No, you’ve been rather distracted today; surely you wouldn’t blame me for _asking_?”

Philip removed himself from Isaac’s arms and began to dress. “Conversation has never been at the forefront of your mind - and mine, for that matter - so why start now?”

The hurt in Isaac’s eyes surfaced and disappeared just as promptly. “If you insist,” he said with an uncharacteristic curtness as he slipped back into his clothes. “And, to answer your question - I don’t know much about the place, though I could ask Lord Gladstone, or Henry…”

“No need for the trouble,” Philip said quickly, to which Isaac raised his eyebrows, and they simply regarded each other in silence, until Philip sighed. “I didn’t mean to spoil the moment, and for that I apologise.”

“Apology accepted,” Isaac said with the beginnings of a smile. “Though if you did want to make up for it, we could have a gander around Piccadilly for luncheon.”

Apparently, Isaac was intent on breaking conventions today - first, to _talk,_ and now, to dine together.

It alarmed Philip - more than it ought to, perhaps.

“Another time?”

Isaac glanced away. “All right, then.”

* * *

Two days later, after much deliberation and near-sleepless nights, Philip decided - with fortitude he’d all but forgotten the taste of - to shoot for the moon, pride be damned.

It was with this single thought that he ventured into the Astor Club that afternoon. Armed with a smile twice so polite as it was genuine, he acquired a pass at the reception and walked through the doors that led beyond the foyer. Another door was located past the entrance, unassuming and out of the way, with a sign indicating ‘Staff Only’; aching with anticipation ever tangible, Philip hovered nearby, discreetly as he could, until he saw an opportunity to slip through it unnoticed.

When he finally did, with a false of air nonchalance he traversed down the corridor, praying he wouldn’t have the misfortune of being interrogated for his presence.

There was no such luck.

“How may I help, sir?” a staff member asked as Philip nearly walked into him.

“Apologies, I might have wandered into a place I’m not supposed to in search for the lavatory.”

“The closest one would be the one on the west of Parlour Room Two, through here,” the man said, gesturing towards yet another door.

“Thank you.”

A rather awkward moment ensued when both of them waited for the other to proceed, until the man nodded politely, wishing Philip a pleasant afternoon before excusing himself. Having ensured he was left to his own devices, Philip continued down the hallway for any sign of Thomas, or at least _some_ indication of his existence -

He halted in front of a closed door, which was labelled ‘T. Barrow’, and underneath was what appeared to be his working hours:

_Monday: Off  
Tuesday: Off  
Wednesday: 10:00 AM - 6:00 PM  
Thursday: 10:00 AM - 6:00 PM  
Friday: 6:00 PM - 2:00 AM  
Saturday: 6:00 PM - 2:00 AM  
Sunday: 6:00PM - 2:00 AM_

As Philip stood before this sign, it was 3:05 PM on a Saturday.

To say Philip had consulted his watch every five minutes for the next three hours would not be an exaggeration. He had opted to pass the time in the Club’s library, with some inconsequential book in hand, for it was the only place where he would be left in peace even with the ill fortune of chancing into a familiar face. This strategy, whilst terribly effective in warding off frivolous chatter and potential _questions_ from any passing acquaintance, served to prolong what had already been a tedious length of time.

Nonetheless, the seconds ticked by, until the clock struck six.

As to avoid appearing completely and utterly insane, Philip lingered in the library for another half-hour before he proceeded towards Thomas’s office. In front of the door he stood; it was closed, though from the light that seeped through the gap, it was only logical for Thomas be on the other side of it. Before Philip could change his mind, he knocked, lightly, his heart racing at a speed he hadn’t thought possible -

“Philip?” said a voice behind him and, _God,_ it was the most delightful sound he’d ever heard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Have a lovely week, everyone.


	5. Thomas III: The Things We've Missed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 13 April 2020 Update: Hi! Just want to say that unfortunately this fic is discontinued due to external distractions (mainly three reasons, first being Thomas/Richard, second being the show Peaky Blinders, and last being that I'm losing focus in writing long stories). It's a bit unfortunate because I do have a full outline for this story, but I just don't have the motivation to continue it and it's not fun to write this fic anymore. I don't want to put this on hiatus because it implies I will pick it back up one day. At this point, I don't think I will, so whilst I'm not orphaning this story (for the very slight chance that I do end up picking back up), I'm officially discontinuing it.

Over the years, Thomas had envisioned this, many times: seeing Philip, talking to him, after the way they had left things. Even so, he had never quite let himself indulge in the fancies of truly crossing paths with Philip again, not in this fashion - at least, until two days ago, when they had seen each other in front of Philip’s former London home.

Now, with Philip before him, knocking on the door to his office, there were many questions Thomas wanted to ask: how did he know, why was he here, what was he hoping to get out of this -

“What are you doing here?” was what Thomas decided on.

To himself, his voice sounded bewildered and - he was aghast to realise - a little put-off, yet being _put-off_ was the last thing he felt and he yearned for Philip to _know_ that.

For a moment, Philip simply stared at him; it was rather unlike him to be lost for words, though what did Thomas know about him, after all that had passed?

“I’m...not sure,” Philip said, eventually, regarding Thomas with an expression so guarded Thomas had no doubt he remembered it all, how they’d ended.

What a waste it had been.

“I suppose curiosity got the better of me,” Philip added; he was smiling a little, now. “As it always did where you were concerned.”

Christ.

_The things you say, even now._

“Right.”

Although Thomas was intent on glossing over Philip’s words, he couldn’t bring himself to look away from him; age had sharpened the planes of his features, yet the boyish handsomeness that had once enraptured Thomas remained. The cheek in Philip’s eyes, which had been at the forefront of his expressions during that summer, was all but tempered with experience, with the things they’d seen; Thomas found himself wishing, just briefly, he’d been there for it all.

A colleague walked past them in the corridor, one whose name eluded Thomas; he was still working his way around new faces. When he was well beyond earshot, Thomas said to Philip, “This is hardly the place for a conversation.” He glanced at his watch. “I have a break at half past eight. It’s a while away, but if you’re willing to wait, might be better if we catch up at the pub -”

“Yes.”

“...around the corner.”

“Certainly,” Philip affirmed, once again, like he didn’t want to chance Thomas not hearing him the first time - as if Thomas would miss such a thing.

“The Havelock Arms it is.”

They lingered in the hallway; a few seconds flitted by before Thomas pulled himself out of his daze, giving Philip a soft nod, to which Philip said, quietly, “I’ll see you later.” He turned away and returned to the parlour room.

Within his office, Thomas leaned back against the door, closing his eyes.

_Did that just happen?_

He shook his head, all at once appalled by his own reaction to Philip - his heart was still beating so furiously - yet enticed at the prospect of it all. Although Thomas wasn’t expecting much to come out of this - and he wasn’t sure if he wanted such a thing - there was no sense in denying the thrill of being given a second chance, if only to make amends and continue with their lives, separately or not, without the bitter note that had prevailed against the passage of time.

Casting aside these thoughts, Thomas delved into his work; he retrieved the ledger from his drawer to update the accounts, before realising he needed the latest register of the Club's memberships, which would either be in Carter’s desk or at the reception. Thomas glanced at the other door in his office, the one that led into Carter’s; it was locked, for it seemed the man was away tonight, thus Thomas proceeded to the foyer.

Victor, as expected, was stationed at the reception desk. Thomas asked him for the records of the months’ memberships, which Victor provided, though not without a look of inquiry.

“What?” Thomas asked.

“You do know a Philip Seymour, don’t you?” The curiosity in Victor’s tone was undeniable. “The Duke of Crowborough.”

There was no harm in a little truth. “Yes, I do. Why?”

“He came here asking about you a few days ago, then, earlier today, he registered for a pass,” Victor said, raising his eyebrows. “He said you’d worked for him, once.”

Careful to avoid betraying his surprise, Thomas said, “That’s correct, but it’s a long time ago.”

“Were you friends?”

“You ask a lot of questions, Victor.” Thomas appraised him with not a little wariness; they hadn’t spoken much in Thomas’s short time here thus far, though from what he could gather, away from the eyes of patrons and certainly Carter, Victor seemed agreeable enough. Still, he ought to tread with caution. “But yes, you could say we were friends, as much as one could be with his employer, that is.” The lie came so easily to Thomas, it surprised even himself.

“What a colourful history you’ve had, Mr Barrow,” Victor said, smiling with delight. “You must tell me more sometime.”

“For the biography you’re going to write about me?”

Victor gave a small laugh. “Exactly.”

* * *

When Thomas reached the Havelock Arms, the sun had long retired after dusk; the only light was the one that spilled through the pub’s windows, along with the street lamp before it. In front of the entrance, Thomas hesitated.

This was, _indeed,_ happening.

He stepped through the door.

For all his tempered expectation regarding the likelihood of Philip’s appearance - to soften any disappointment - Thomas’s relief and _gladness_ at the sight of Philip was, frankly, embarrassing.

As he approached Philip at the bar, he could only pray the truth of his state wasn’t too obvious, for the sake of his dignity. “Hope you haven’t waited for too long.”

Philip began to speak, then stopped himself, as though changing his mind. In the end, he said, “Not at all, Thomas.”

To hear his Christian name from Philip, spoken rather nonchalantly, was strange; all the same, it was nothing short of _familiar_ \- shockingly so.

As Thomas settled into the seat beside him, they ordered drinks along with dinner. After the attendant had left, they sat in silence, and it was by virtue of the easy camaraderie around them that such a pause was made all the more strained.

“I’m not entirely sure why I’m here,” Philip said, apropos of nothing. “But I’m glad I am.”

Not even five minutes in and Philip was already getting to the heart of it, though what he had _meant_ exactly - that was the question.

“Me too,” Thomas said, with all the honesty he could muster, for he had never once lied to Philip and he was hardly going to start now. “It’s been a while.”

“What did I miss?” Philip asked, smiling with reticence that Thomas had once thought he would never see, because _reticence_ and _Philip_ simply didn’t belong in Thomas’s picture of him.

Yet here they were.

“It’s been fourteen years, Philip. We’d be here all night,” Thomas said, lightly, watching Philip’s reserved smile grow into something more recognisable, something _happier_.

“There are certainly worse ways to spend the evening.”

And Thomas wanted to tell him to _stop_ saying things like that if he didn’t mean them, because he _couldn’t,_ not after everything.

Instead, Thomas said, “As you wish.”

They spoke of the past - Thomas’s past, mainly; he talked about the war, the army medical corps, Lady Mary - “She married a _race-car driver_ , can you believe that?” - and he talked about Master George, and him making butler.

“Climbing the ladder, I see. Quite effectively so I might add.”

Thomas shrugged. “Doesn’t matter anymore, with where I ended up going.”

That was when Philip’s gaze shifted from Thomas’s down to his gloved hand. Although Philip didn’t voice a question, Thomas saw the solemn curiosity in his eyes; he thought about removing his glove, yet the notion felt terribly exposing, in more ways than one, thus he simply ghosted his other hand over the leather. “Got me home from the Front.” He didn’t say more than that and, to his relief, Philip didn’t insist, so Thomas changed the subject. “What happened to Seymour House?”

“As you no doubt have seen, it is now an office. Money went to the estate. Might as well have burned it to cinders for all the good it’d done.”

 _Didn’t you find yourself a rich wife precisely for these problems?_ was what Thomas wanted to ask.

It seemed Philip suspected as much. “Surely you’re wondering if I married a wealthy heiress or another, to which I’ll say, unfortunately, I did.”

“Unfortunately?”

Philip let out a sigh akin to resignation. “The benefits didn’t outweigh the grief. Shall we leave it at that?”

Later, Thomas learned that Philip didn’t have children; his wife was barren, he’d said, and Thomas pondered, silently, why he hadn’t sought a divorce, for the purpose of siring an heir had seemed to be one of his intentions, back when Philip had cut their ties. Taking his chances, Thomas raised the question.

“You know I’m awful with children, Thomas,” Philip said in response, smiling, despite it all. “In the end, I do think it’s working out fairly well, given the circumstance. Mother has stopped pestering me about a grandson when I made it clear I’ve no intentions to divorce Cynthia, barren or not. That alone might very well be worth it.”

Thomas realised, with a little sadness, what a lonely life Philip must’ve had; he turned away, all at once unable to meet Philip’s eyes.

The hour had ended all too prematurely when Thomas glanced at the clock by the bar, which indicated, rather obnoxiously, that it was time for him to return.

Outside of the pub, they stood amongst a silence ever tentative; it seemed to be prevalent these days, with neither of them quite knowing what to say, sometimes. Thomas supposed it was only expected, with such a chasm having formed between them, one that he wondered if they could ever bridge; before this evening, Thomas would’ve thought such a feat impossible.

Now, he wasn’t sure.

“I’m bound for Crowborough tomorrow morning,” Philip said, just as Thomas was about to bid farewell.

“Oh.” He ached to ask when Philip would be back, yet...

“I’ll certainly return to London. Although I can’t quite say when, I know it will be before long.” Philip’s words ceased to a pause, before he added, “It has been wonderful seeing you, Thomas.”

“Let me know when you’re back, won’t you?” Thomas said, hastily. “It was good to catch up. I’d like to do it again.”

Thomas could barely believe what he was saying, himself.

Philip gave a small smile. “I’d like that, too.”

* * *

_19 September 1926_

_Dear Phyllis,_

_I hope you’re well at Downton. Is it still standing in my absence? I’d be lying if I said I’m not curious about your new butler. Do tell me about him._

_How are Master George and Sybbie coming along? I’d like to think they miss me, but you know children - they move on quickly._

_As for me, I’m doing nicely in London. Still searching for a suitable flat. No luck so far. I’d hoped I wouldn’t have to live too far from the Club, but we’ll see. Work is going well. My manager, Carter, seems all right. He knows what he’s doing and he’s not afraid to let you know it. Could definitely be a lot worse. There’s someone here - Victor, he works at the reception - who I think I may get along with. It’s too soon to say much else, though._

_I wasn’t sure if I was going to tell you, but after giving it some thought, I’ve decided I will - I trust you’ll keep what I’m about to say between us. I’ve recently reunited with a friend I hadn’t seen in a while. Fourteen years, actually. We caught up at the pub the other night. It was strange, seeing him after all these years. He’s quite different from how I remembered him. Not in a bad way, though I’m not sure if it’s good_, _either. What I do know is he seems rather down, these days. I wish I knew how to help, but I don’t think I can… His problems are well beyond what I could ever hope to fix. In any case, he’s gone back to the country now. He promised we’ll speak again, but he isn’t exactly known for keeping his word, not where I’m concerned, at any rate (though as I said, he has_ _changed, so maybe it’ll be different this time)._

_Anyway, I’ve just returned from work. It’s almost 3:00 AM. Should probably get a bit of sleep. Tell the others I said hello. Even Mr Bates._

_Sincerely,_

_T. Barrow_

_P.S. Don’t write back to this address - it’s from the inn I’m staying at for now. When I move into a flat - which will be soon enough, hopefully - I’ll send you the details._


End file.
